


Saved

by lilylashes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Homophobic Language, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-17
Updated: 2013-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-29 15:55:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1007284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilylashes/pseuds/lilylashes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets invited to a reunion with his old mates from the Army. Against his better judgment, he asks Sherlock to accompany him. Sherlock is, believe it or not, on his best behaviour, but trouble finds him anyway. Written for an LJ prompt. (Full prompt inside.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saved

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt: _John gets invited to a military get-together; close friends from his time serving in Afghanistan. It's kind of a formal gathering, where the guys would be expected to either bring their significant other or a date._
> 
> _John brings Sherlock, who he's been with since Sherlock returned from the Fall. This is their first real outing as a couple._
> 
> _It goes well, for the most part, but all of them are surprised that straight-for-all-his-life!John is with a guy, and Sherlock is easily one of (if not the) most attractive person in the room, and one or two of the more drunk or homophobic ones make disparaging comments about Sherlock (i.e, being the "woman" in the relationship, the shape of his mouth and what it must be "good at," how skinny he is, etc]._
> 
> _Sherlock expects John to be embarrassed, but John shuts that shit down right away. He doesn't let anyone get away with badmouthing Sherlock, and says if anyone doesn't like it they can bloody well leave. It's easily the most assure of their relationship that Sherlock has ever seen John be._
> 
> _When they get home, John sucks Sherlock off for the first time. John had heard the word "cocksucker" thrown around one too many times that night and he wanted to reassure Sherlock that he's not ashamed of being with him._
> 
> Hope you enjoy. Kudos/comments are my 7% :)
> 
> xx lilylashes

               ‘Are you sure about this? It’s going to be long, loud and probably not very fun for you. Are you sure you thought it through? Really, if you don’t want to come, I won’t hold it against you-’ John fell silent as Sherlock glared up at him from the sofa, his long legs and bare feet stretched out across John’s lap.

               For what felt like the hundredth time, Sherlock rolled his eyes. ‘Really, John, this is getting ridiculous. I said I would like to accompany you to this _reunion_ ’, he said the word with a disdainful sniff, ‘and I can assure you that I am more than capable of imagining how the night will progress. Don’t insult my intelligence; we both know it’s not my interest in the event that you’re concerned about. Why don’t you say the real reason why you don’t want me to go.’

               John stared at Sherlock for a moment before sighing and running a hand awkwardly though his hair, ‘Alright,’ he said finally, ‘It’s not that I don’t want you to come with me, it’s just… Sherlock, it’s just that these people are important to me. More than important. They’re more like family than friends, and quite a few I owe my life to – literally. I just… Well, Sherlock, don’t take this the wrong way, but I really don’t want to see my brothers have their lives laid out for all to see, for them to be uncomfortable or humiliated or any of that. All of us have done things that we’re not proud of that we wouldn’t want brought to light on what is supposed to be an evening for us to remember those we lost and celebrate those we still have.’

               Sherlock was silently for a moment, then nodded slowly and sat up, swinging his legs around so he could rise from the sofa, ‘I understand, John,’ he said quietly, ‘I promise I won’t do anything to make you or your frien- your _brothers_ uncomfortable.’ He stood and turned to exit the sitting room, stopping only briefly when he heard John’s quiet thanks.

~~~~~

               The reunion was hell.

               John had not been that far off the mark when he had warned Sherlock that it would be loud, long, and not very fun. Despite the fact that all the men present were well into their late thirties or early forties, apparently there was some chromosome present in ex-soldiers that turned them into hollering, hooting twenty-somethings again when they were confronted with their fellows and copious amounts of alcohol. There had been lots of shouting and shoulder clapping and (good god!) _chest bumping_ within the first five minutes of Sherlock and John entering the pub, and signs indicated that there were still many hours to go.

               The moment he walked in, John had been immediately engulfed by several sweating, slurring comrades and had already made his way through several pints of beer and shots of whiskey. Sherlock’s lip curled at what was clearly a pathetic attempt to re-live some long-gone Army glory days, but, true to his word, had said nothing. He sulkily made his way to the bar, ordered a glass of wine and sat, sipping it miserably in an unobtrusive corner, wondering when and if John might notice his absence.

               Anyone who had ever met Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t have believed that he was physically or mentally capable of being so well behaved. Truly, it was not in the detective’s nature to bite his tongue ever, much less when confronted with a bunch of rowdy, middle-aged, testosterone fueled fools, but they were important to John, and John was important to him. John was wonderful to him, had taken care of Sherlock basically from the moment they met, had stitched him back up when he was too reckless, and had forgiven him when Sherlock had done the unthinkable and broken his heart when he fell from St. Bart’s and forced John to watch. John was patient and understanding and kind, and said he owed these idiots his life. Thus, it was sufficient to say that Sherlock owed them his own life as well.

               So lost was Sherlock in his contemplations, that he actually didn’t notice right off when two intoxicated men extricated themselves from the herd and stumbled over to him. When he finally did look up at them, it took every ounce of will power he possessed to not deduce the gambling habit and failing marriage of the one on the right, or the homosexual tendencies and painkiller addiction of the one on the left. He forced some semblance of a smile on his face (though it truly ended up being more of a grimace) and lowered his wine glass.

               ‘Gentlemen,’ he acknowledged them cordially, nodding to each in turn. His heart sank when he saw them exchange a smirk and lean in closer.

               ‘ ‘ _Gentlemen_ ’ he says,’ the gambler mocked with a sneer, ‘Listen to this toff, Bern, sittin’ there wiff his fancy wine and coat. Looks like a damn poofter too, don’t he? Betcha he ain’t got nothin’ better to do on a Friday night than to sit around here lookin’ for a cock to suck.’

               The urge to correct the man’s horrendous grammar waged a valiant war against the urge to rip him apart in front of everyone, but Sherlock caught sight of John across the bar, laughing at something one of his friends said. He looked so very happy that Sherlock gritted his teeth and very deliberately picked up his wine glass and took another long swallow.

               ‘You’re right, Geoff,’ Bern (who was, ironically, a closeted homosexual himself, judging by the shine on his shoes and the part of his hair) said with a laugh, ‘Look at that mouth. Funny shape of them lips, but I bet when they’re stretched around a big prick, no one’s complaining.’

               Sherlock let out a low growl, but remained obstinately silent. He had promised John…

               ‘Betcha like taking it up the arse too, don’tcha, yeh fuckin’ queer?’ Geoff the gambler snickered gleefully, ‘Fuckin’ pretty boy cock sucker-’

               ‘Problem, lads?’ a quiet voice interrupted just as Sherlock’s tolerance for idiocy hit its breaking point. His mouth, which had fallen open in preparation of the rant that was on the tip of his tongue, snapped closed when he saw the intervening voice did, in fact, belong to John.

               Geoff and Bern turned to see John, and immediately broke into wide smiles.

               ‘Three C!’ they chorused, with another round of shoulder slapping. Sherlock rolled his eyes and massaged his temples.

               ‘We was just havin’ a go at this cocksucking poof,’ Bern stage whispered conspiratorially, his arm still slung across John’s shoulders, ‘Fuckin’ pretty boy has no business being here tonight. Imagine he’s looking for a prick to swallow.’

               Sherlock, who until now, had been determinedly studying the grain of the wood of the bar, dared to dart a glance up at John. In less than a second, John’s face had gone from happy, drunk and flushed to ice cold, steel blue, _I’m Captain John Watson and I will fuck you up_ stony stillness.

               ‘He had every reason to be here tonight,’ John said coldly, turning to stand between the two men and Sherlock, ‘As he’s my partner and came here with me.’

               It seemed as though the loud chatter of the pub abruptly died away and left an uneasy silence in its wake. If it had been one of those old American cowboy movies, the patrons of the pub would have been ducking under tables and running for the doors. John, all 1.69 meters of him, suddenly seemed to tower over everyone in the room as he stood there with his arms crossed and feet planted squarely on the floor, a stance that was clearly daring Geoff and Bern to continue.

               ‘I- He- You-’ Bern stuttered incoherently, ‘Fuckin’- _What_?! Three Continents Watson went queer?! Well, no fuckin’ wonder… This poof’s build like a bitch anyway, all fuckin’ skinny like a slag. Wonder he hasn’t torn in half when he gets a cock up his arse. Betcha make good use of that mouth, Johnny-’

               And then he was silent. And on the floor. And holding his face where John had pulled back and punched him. Sherlock had been quite pleased to hear the resounding _crack_ of impact, and was fairly certain John had broken the man’s jaw.

               ‘Don’t you _ever_ ,’ John growled quietly, leaning down over the fallen man, ‘ _Ever_ let me hear you say _anything_ about him again, or I swear to God, I will tell _everyone_ exactly what happened that night in Lashkar Gah. Come on, Sherlock; it’s time to go.’ And with that, he turned and stormed out of the pub without so much as a backwards glance at the men who, only yesterday, he had called his brothers.

~~~~~

               John was absolutely silent on the cab ride home, and when it pulled up to Baker Street, he exited the cab and strode inside without his usual banter with Sherlock over who would pay the fare. Blindly, Sherlock pulled a wad of bills from his wallet and shoved them at the cabbie before following John inside.

               Each step up the stairs felt like scaling a small mountain. The effort involved just to get up to their flat was monumental, because Sherlock very much did not want to know what was waiting for him on the other side of the door.

               He had done all he could to keep his temper and not ruin the evening for John, and yet the evening had been ruined anyway. Though he knew perfectly well that there was no logical reason for it, he felt an illogical knot of guilt in his stomach. His kind, patient doctor had hit a man tonight, possibly breaking his jaw, and while this was in no way the most extreme act of physical violence Sherlock had ever witnessed from John (he had, after all, killed a man within the first forty-eight hours of their first meeting), it was so unlike the doctor, who soothed and healed, that it was a sure sign of how affected the man had been.

               Finally reaching the top of the stairs, Sherlock paused a moment to take a deep breath before entering the flat. John stood in the sitting room, gazing out the window, with his back to Sherlock and his hands jammed in his pockets. Hesitantly, Sherlock approached him, stopping a few feet behind him.

               ‘John, I-’ he started, but trailed off, not knowing what exactly he meant to say. For a man with literally thousands of words in hundreds of languages at his disposal, he found himself frustratingly inarticulate.

               John turned, his expression blank and his eyes unreadable. He and Sherlock stood facing each other for a long moment, separated by mere feet of hardwood floor, but suddenly it seemed like years and miles and oceans and an entire lifetime of contradicting experiences. Sherlock had grown up in solitude, not having had a close relationship with his family, and not having had any interest in cultivating friendships. He had drifted through school and partially through university as though in a glass bubble – above and untouched by the mundane world around him.

               John, on the other hand, had experienced the world, and all it had to offer. He had loved and fought and fucked and lost and seen death and saved lives. His hands were rough and were accustomed to being both dirty from the desert sand and blood and sweat and tears, but also meticulously and fastidiously washed and cleaned and prepped for surgery. Those men tonight, ignorant and witless though they may be, had been bonded to John during their time in the war, and Sherlock had driven a wedge between them, however unintentional.

               Sherlock cleared his throat and forced himself to look away from John. He trained his eyes on a spot on the floor and said the only thing he could think of.

               ‘I’m sorry, John.’

~~~~~

               John stared at Sherlock, completely dumbfounded. Not only was it nearly unheard of for the detective to apologise to anyone ever, but he was apologising for something that was clearly not his fault.

John had known from the moment he’d gotten the message about the reunion that Sherlock would be miserable if he went, but still John had asked him to attend anyway. They’d hardly had a chance to be like a normal couple since Sherlock returned from the dead, and those long years of grieving had given John little more than endless days of imagining and yearning for all the things he’d never gotten to do with Sherlock, to share with him, to experience with him. Sure, there were grand gestures, such as travelling the world and someday buying a home in the country, but it was the little things that they’d miss out on that really killed him. Showering together in the morning, falling asleep together at night. Sherlock stealing sips out of John’s cup of tea. John running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair as they lounged on the sofa on a Sunday morning, reading the paper. And more than anything, John regretted never having introduced Sherlock to his mates from the Army. The lads from the Fusiliers had saved his life in combat. Sherlock had saved his life when he returned from it. Somehow, the fact that they had never met seemed like a travesty after Sherlock had tipped from the roof of hospital, which nearly killed John as well.

Selfishly, when the invitation came through, John had been first delighted that now he could have closure from that irrational torment, and then deeply, deeply anxious about it. Though he loved Sherlock dearly (not that he’d yet admitted that out loud), there was a connection to his Army friends that went as deep as it was possible to go. Now that his mind was no longer clouded with grief, he was able to more accurately imagine a meeting between Sherlock and them, and the more he imagined it, the bigger the predicted disaster became. Surely Sherlock, just by being Sherlock, would say something wildly inappropriate or cutting, and the idea of someone, even someone John cared for as much as Sherlock, saying or doing something like that to those men who John had fought, bled and cried, both with and for, was unthinkable. Unfortunately, by the time he’d come to this conclusion, he’d already made the mistake of inviting Sherlock to go out with him on what was, in fact, going to be their first proper date.

               However, when it came down to it, John was truly surprised to find that there had need no question in his mind over whose side he would pick during that confrontation. It was Sherlock – it had always been Sherlock, and he knew now that it would always be. And to see Sherlock sitting back and taking all manner of verbal abuse without so much as raising a single protest, something inside John had snapped, and brotherhood or not, John would be damned if he were going to have to stand there and listen to someone speak to Sherlock like that.

               ‘Sherlock,’ John said finally, into the silence, ‘There’s nothing you need to apologise for. I should have never… Never left you alone there. And it wasn’t you – Geoff and Bernie were completely out of order. I’m- I’m the one who’s sorry.’

               Sherlock regarded him carefully, thoughtfully, and then reached one hand across the open space to him. John grabbed it immediately, and pulled Sherlock toward the sofa, settling down into the cushions and folding his legs beneath him. Sherlock sighed contentedly and leaned his head against John’s.

               ‘It’s not your fault either, John,’ he said after a while, ‘And I am perfectly capable of sitting on my own and occupying myself while you socialise with your friends- sorry, your _brothers_.’

               Try as he might, Sherlock was unable to keep the bite from his voice when he said the last word. John studied him for a long moment, ‘Sherlock, I’m sorry,’ he said again, ‘I never should have made it seem as though they were more important than you. And I’m sorry for what those pricks said about you. I don’t… Well, you’re not… I mean, it’s fine. It’s all fine. I don’t think of you like… Like that or anything,’ John finished awkwardly, patting Sherlock on the knee. Sherlock bristled at the touch and launched himself off the sofa until he stood over John, anger etched across his face, his hands balled into fists.

               ‘Why, because that would be embarrassing?’ Sherlock finally snapped, ‘That the great Three Continents Watson went from sleeping his way through Europe and half of the Middle East to being tied down to a cocksucking toff? That now your Army friends think you’re a queer or a fag or whatever other mundane homophobic label they’d like to throw around. Let’s be honest now, John, the real reason you didn’t want me to come tonight, the real reason you ignored me the second we got to that godforsaken place was because you know as well as I do that those idiots you’re so indebted to have no tolerance for _pillow biters_!’

               John stared at Sherlock in shock, not only because of what he was implying, but also because he had never heard the detective use such crude language. Sherlock was painstaking about his grammar and vocabulary, something that was both endearing and infuriating. He stood as well and pulled Sherlock into a tight embrace.

               ‘Is that what you think?’ John asked in disbelief, ‘That I’m _embarrassed_ to be with you? Or that I give a damn whether or not those lads think I’m gay? Sherlock, it’s the Army – after eight or nine months of deployment, no one gives a damn about labels anymore. And in case you didn’t notice, you’re the one I chose. I left with you, and to hell with the lot of them. They’ll get over it, bust my arse a bit the next time I see them, and then want to know if they’re going to have to wear suits to our wedding. Or if they don’t, they don’t. Either way, it doesn’t matter to me. You’re all that matters to me,’ John finished seriously, his lips inches from Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock’s breathing became laboured, and John was suddenly startling aware of just how close he was holding the other man, and how very rigid Sherlock was holding himself.

He brushed his lips against the shell of Sherlock’s ear and grinned to himself when he heard the detective let out a low groan. He trailed kisses down Sherlock’s neck, and used one hand to cup the back of his head as the other worked its way under Sherlock’s (oh so very fitted) button-up shirt.

               ‘John, what...?’ Sherlock’s voice trailed off as John released his head and brought both hands down to his trousers. Within seconds, Sherlock found his belt being unbuckled, and his trousers being forced open. He let out a strangled, animalistic noise that he wasn’t even aware he was capable of making until that moment. Gently, but deliberately, John pushed him back down to the sofa, and settled himself on the floor between Sherlock’s knees.

               ‘Let me show you exactly how much I am not embarrassed to be with you,’ John answered in a low voice, his pupils blown wide. With both hands – those experienced, scarred, doctor-soldier, always steady hands – he maneuvered Sherlock’s pants over his hips and began stroking his cock from root to tip. His tongue followed the path of his hand, the other hand dropping down to lavish attention on Sherlock’s balls.

               ‘That sentence… Was… Appalling,’ Sherlock said breathlessly, the rest of his complaint getting lost in a low moan as John swallowed him down.

~~~~~

               The world came back into focus half an hour, or half a day or two and a half weeks later. Sherlock wasn’t quite sure how much time had passed since he’d blacked out as his orgasm ripped through him, and rendered him completely helpless in John’s hands (and mouth). That had been like nothing he’d ever experienced in his (admittedly very limited) sexual history. John Watson was, in fact, very orally talented.

               ‘Feel better, love?’ he heard coming from somewhere to the left of where he sat, sprawled out on the sofa. With a satiated groan, he forced himself to roll his head over to see John standing there with a damp flannel and (of all things) a cup of tea. With a smirk, John handed the tea to Sherlock, and set to work cleaning him with the flannel. Sherlock batted his hand away and grabbed it from him.

               ‘I can do that myself, John,’ he snapped, though his voice was croaky and had none of its usual acid in it. John just laughed and kissed him on the cheek. Despite himself, Sherlock smiled. As he wiped himself clean, he observed John sitting there, contentedly sipping his own cup of tea. A realisation hit him at that exact moment – a startling, frightening, brilliant realisation. John chose that moment to meet his gaze.

               ‘Well, I take it you enjoyed that,’ the doctor said mildly, ‘Good. I just want you to know that there are things in my life that I am not proud of, and things that I am a bit embarrassed about, but you, Sherlock Holmes, fall into neither of those categories. You are the very best part of me, and you saved me in more ways than you know. I… I lov-’

               ‘Don’t say it, John,’ Sherlock interrupted. John stopped speaking immediately, a look of hurt and disappointment taking over his features. Quickly Sherlock continued, ‘You know, even though those idiots from tonight are bumbling ignoramuses with nothing of worth to offer humanity, I feel as though I am permanently indebted to them because- well, because they are the reason I have you. And I… I want to be the one to say it first. I… Well, I quite love you. I _do_ love you. I love you quite a lot.’ Sherlock finished lamely, the overwhelming show of sentiment nearly causing him to gag. He stole a glance at John, and found the doctor was grinning broadly at him.

               John sat back against the sofa and let his head drop back, smiling at the ceiling for a moment. When he looked back to Sherlock, his eyes were alight with happiness and affection, ‘Well, good. I was kind of hoping you did.’

               Sherlock cleared his throat, ready for the sentimental nonsense to be over with, ‘Very well. Now that that’s out of the way, I would like for you to come with me to my room now,’ he stood and began striding towards his bedroom, ‘I would like to return the favour. After all, I have it on good authority that I should be an excellent cocksucker. Well, I say good authority…’

With that, he ducked into his room, leaving John to follow in his wake, shaking his head and laughing as he went.

**Author's Note:**

> Lame, lame, lame title! In case you couldn't tell from my other idiotically named stories, I am shit at coming up with titles. If someone could suggest something better, that would be wonderful. I posted it to LJ as just a fill, but AO3 is demanding a title, so there you have it. 'Saved'. Lame. Sorry.


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